


The Things We've Lost

by libraryofruina



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Royal Spoilers, major character death......... For Now.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryofruina/pseuds/libraryofruina
Summary: The truth of the matter is that, when all’s said and done, the Phantom Thieves of Heart were nothing more than mere teenagers, saddled with a decision heavier than the weight of life itself. Despite, or perhaps because, the importance of their choice, they’re paralyzed, hesitating in fear of the burden resting on their shoulders. Their indecision changed the fate of reality--of the whole world. And yet, time ticks on, none the wiser. Even still, one question remains, buried within the depths of those once rebellious hearts.Is there a way to get back what they’ve lost?
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	The Things We've Lost

**Author's Note:**

> takes place after the "deadline ending" for royal's final palace, as such, there will be royal spoilers down the line in this fic, so heed this warning if you've yet to finish the game!

A strange haze covers all the eye can see. It’s almost like a foggy blanket has consumed the entire world, coating everything the eye can see with an unusual blur. The air is thick and smells… sweet, too sweet. Like cotton candy, or a particularly decadent cake, one that would leave your teeth aching, but with a flavor that wouldn’t fade no matter what you attempted to wash it down with.

Despite the miasma, a single figure walks forward, cloaked in the fog. His eyes narrow, hand coming up to shield his face from flickering blue light, somewhere far into the distance. He keeps moving, but notes his legs feel as if they’re made out of sand.

When he looks down, he sees chains attached to his legs. Shackling him down. But the concern or anger or fear doesn’t seem to register. It all pales in comparison to the part of them that urges him to move forward. To where, he doesn’t know. But he knows he has to keep going. Something in the depths of his heart cries out. Something… something…? Someone?

Someone’s voice. It’s familiar. Who is it?

“These goddamn shackles make it impossible to move…” The figure mumbles, moving forward despite his irritated complaints, although his expression remains flat. He can hear chains rattling but can’t locate the source of the noise. Left? Right? Forward? Back?

No turning back. Keep going.

_No turning back._

The noise continues. From where? As he moves, he notices something. A smell. A horrid, putrid smell. Something familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. Despite not knowing exactly what it is, he knows it smells absolutely awful. And yet he pushes forward, practically forcing one foot in front of the other as he gets closer and closer to the smell.

He stands in front of static, the very fabric of reality glitching and fading. It’s like that place in time and space had been crossed out with a marker. And the smell… that smell…

So foul, disgusting enough that it made bile rise in his throat. He swallows it down, ignoring the sour taste. He takes a deep breath in, attempting once more to identify the smell. Did it really matter what the smell was? It’s just a dream, after all. It’s not real. This isn’t reality, is it? It’s not real. Why does it matter what the smell is?

The smell… that smell is…

That same figure jolts up in bed, sweat dripping down his cheeks, sticking the fabric of his pajamas to his skin. He grips just over his heart, the fabric bunching in his hands as he takes note of his wildly beating heart. That smell’s still lingering. He covers a hand over his mouth, taking a deep breath.

“The smell of a rotting corpse...” 

What a strange dream. 

He shakes his head, kicking off the covers as the dream begins to slowly fade from his mind. But with it, a strange feeling makes itself known. A strange sense of… a hollow space in his chest. As the dream faded further, that feeling only grew.

He doesn’t try to make sense of it. It was only a dream, after all. What did the meaning of it matter? He hastily makes his bed. As if on auto-pilot, he grabs out his uniform that’s hanging in the closet, pulling it on and then making his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

Akechi Goro stares at himself in the mirror, a blank expression meeting an identical one. Red wine eyes born into eyes of that very same color. When he blinks, his reflection blinks back. “That’s how mirrors work,” He notes to himself. 

And yet something seems strange. Something’s… off. What was it? A hair out of place? Something in his teeth? A smudge on his collar? Goro checks these things again and again, but finds nothing. A strange occurrence. He watches his reflection shrug in the mirror. 

It’s probably no big deal. Just a residual feeling from the odd dream he had, that’s all. It’ll go away.

But then it doesn’t. The feeling of confusion irritates him, like an itch he can’t scratch, or something that’s placed too high on a shelf and there’s no ladders. There was something wrong, but Goro didn’t know what it could possibly be. He has no idea what’s wrong, but something is. But what is it?

It's already past lunchtime, and the station is bustling with people. Despite this, the train ride is uneventful. He lets the back of his head rest up against the train window, feeling the rhythmic movement of the trains down to his bones. Goro scans the crowd, eyes narrowing. As always, there wasn’t a displeased face in sight. Everyone had a smile on their faces. Tokyo was such a pleasant place to live in, wasn’t it? Everyone was happy, always.

Goro feels his hand twitch and makes the motion to adjust his gloves. And then he hears a whisper, one he can’t make out, one he can’t make sense of. What is it? He looks down at his gloves. The same expensive leather gloves he’d owned for years now. He had never replaced them because there was no need to. They were a pair kept in mint condition, but right now they look… wrong, somehow. Why?

He forgoes all of his original plans, instead hopping off the train at the next stop, following wherever his feet took him, an impulsive decision all too unlike himself. It must have been that weird dream, but… what was the dream about, again?

That strange ache goes larger and larger. Goro simply walks faster, as if the feeling was hot on his tail, chasing him. But he won’t lose to it.

“...Won’t lose?” He mumbles, to himself. “Why does that…” Mid-sentence, he stops, looking up, staring into the glass of a shop he’d found himself standing in front of. A beautiful, intricate chessboard is on display. Goro feels his eyes widen, entering the shop without a second thought.

He accepts the shopkeeper’s polite greeting but altogether ignores them, choosing instead to make a beeline for the chessboard. It’s even more breathtaking up close; each piece claimed to be hand whittled and thus each set unique. Expecting the worst, he flips over the price tag and only cringes a little bit. Well, he did get paid for his extensive work as a detective, so it’s not as if he wasn’t capable of affording it.

“Still, though,” He mumbles, running his hand along the smooth surface of the board. “It’s such a shame I don’t have a proper playing partner.”

Again, something whispers to him. Something he can’t make out, but somehow understands the words.

_“Is that really the truth?”_

What? Goro’s taken aback, unsure of the meaning of the whisper. Is _what_ the truth? That he had no proper playing partner? But that was true, wasn’t it? Goro had always kept people at an arm’s length, hadn’t he? Not to mention, there’s no one who could stand up to his talents in chess… There’s no one, right?

But… is that really the truth? Somewhere, deep down, he knows that it isn’t true. But… who? Who could possibly…?

Someone passing by him breaks Goro out of his mind. He comes back to earth, returning from the labyrinth of his thoughts. He watches a blonde haired woman and a blue haired young man walk through the aisles of the store. Goro feels himself raise a brow at the man, who’s holding bags upon bags, presumably for the woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. Was she foreign? She looked to be at least half-Japanese, but Goro knows he’d need a better look to be able to tell properly.

He can hear their conversation as they walk through the store, but he pays it no heed, simply noting that the man looked so happy to be with the woman. Goro found himself briefly wondering what on earth their relationship could have been; but more importantly, he found himself, quite frankly, not giving a shit.

It didn’t really matter what their relationship was. After all, none of _their_ business was _his_ business. 

...Again, Goro feels confused at the phrasing of his own thoughts. He simply sighs, and continues on. He passes a familiar bright orange building, briefly letting his eyes glaze over the sign that reads “Big Bang Burger”--he’d heard some good things about that company, how they always took care of their workers and had only continued to grow. Apparently, the only daughter of Okumura Kunikazu was due to inherit his business one day, although this had initially caused some controversy, Okumura managed to quell all those who doubted his daughter, helping them to see her strengths, and what a powerful young woman she was.

However, Goro’s not in the mood to eat a sappy happy meal. Maybe another day. Again, he lets his feet lead him whenever they want to go, and this time, he’s drawn in by a familiar scent. He follows the smell, almost lured in by it. He stops, staring up at a coffee shop that he’s never been to nor heard of.

He peers in. It’s not overly crowded, nor is it empty. Goro looks around, taking in all the patrons. The age and gender seemed to vary. It wasn’t catered to a specific group of people. It was just a coffee shop. Out of all of the patrons, however, only few stand out. There are two women--both of them familiar faces. One of them is an older woman with light grey hair--Nijima Sae. The other must be her little sister, Nijima Makoto.

Goro’s worked with Sae many times, and had come to know Makoto through osmosis, although he’d only talked to her once or twice. Either way, though, he doesn’t feel quite in the mood for conversation, and decides against actually entering the shop. 

Besides...

The smell of coffee reminded him of something. Of a voice. Of gentle eyes, staring into his own. A smile that had somehow grown distant in a way that was just wrong. The smell of coffee brought forth a prickle of irritation, a flash of white-hot rage, a feeling of…

Of… of what? What is this feeling?

Instead of picking at the feeling further, he turns on his heel, letting his feet guide him once more. This time, he ends up in front of a bookshop. A far more reasonable place, Goro figures, and enters. 

He scans the shelves, deciding to make his way to the reference books. Perhaps he’d find something useful for one of his investigations later. And yet, even with that idea in mind, he walks past those books, instead heading for a completely different genre. Instead of nonfiction, he opts for fiction.

_Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes._

Goro feels something weird in his chest. A strange, strange feeling that he couldn’t put to words. It set him off kilter, it put him on edge, it made him feel uneasy and uncomfortable and disquieted and--

“Dude, check this out!” A very loud, brash and vulgar voice shouts. Goro looks over at the source of the noise, seeing a rowdy looking male with bleached blonde hair, although it’s black at the roots. He, and several other of the ones he’s with, are all wearing what look like track uniforms. “Isn’t she so hot?”

Goro rolls his eyes. He can see what the blonde’s pointing at from here--a slender looking gymnast with silky red hair. She’s wearing a leotard, holding a trophy, all with an award winning smile. For some reason, Goro can’t wipe the disgusted look off his face. But he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know where exactly this malice came from.

He’s met her once or twice. She’s pleasant enough, what was her name again? Yoshizawa… something. Yoshizawa… 

“What’s her name again?” One of the blonde’s friend’s asks. What, can he not read? Wouldn’t it be written on the cover? What a bunch of idiots.

“Yoshizawa Kasumi, dude! You gotta at least remember her name!” The blonde supplies, with a boisterous laugh and a wide grin. 

Yoshizawa Kasumi… 

Was that really her name? 

No, of course it was. A magazine wouldn't dare make such a stupid mistake as to write the wrong name on the _cover._ Somewhere in the middle of the book, sure, but not right slap on the front.

Unable to ignore their conversation because of the sheer volume of their voices, Goro, again, can’t wipe the disgusted look off his face. What was this sense of… dislike? The blonde seemed like an overexcited puppy. 

“Hopefully he’s potty-trained,” Goro quips as he grabs the novel, walking up to the register to pay.

His eagerness to read the novel surprises even himself. Although it’s tempting to read it in the privacy of his home, he’s not all that wanting to return to his apartment just yet. Instead, he takes a completely different train, headed for the jazz club he’d grown so fond of. 

Goro doesn’t pay much heed to Kichijoji’s crowd; letting the white-noise of the hustle and bustle fill his ears as he tries to think of nothing in particular, and especially not that strange nagging feeling lurking in the back of his mind as he makes his way to Jazz Jin. He passes a family on his way, a young girl and what Goro presumed were her parents.

The girl was eagerly prattling on about something or other--Goro notes that her hair is obviously dyed a stark shade of orange--and a black haired woman who shares her features was laughing along, and an older man with a beard and a soft smile beamed at them both. They were the picture of a happy family. 

Goro clicks his tongue, and turns the corner to Jazz Jin.

“Must be nice.”

* * *

The familiar, comforting atmosphere soothes him, luring him into a comforting sense of security. Goro practically tears through the book, the barely-there noise of the pages turning melding with the constant rhythmic jazz in the background, the sounds melting together to create a harmony. He devours each and every word with interest, pulled in by the words as if they were a siren’s song.

_“Sholmes experienced that slight fluttering of the heart which always announced to him, in the clearest manner, that he had discovered the road which leads to victory. That ray of truth, that feeling of certainty, never deceived him.”_

Goro can’t resist a chuckle upon reading those words, taking a long, slow sip of the drink he’s been nursing over the past hour--hours, whatever. He’s lost track of time, now, and when he glances out the window, it’s already gotten dark. He’d left the house late, so it’s understandable.

He understands Sholmes’ words all too intimately, thinking of his own single-minded determination in pursuit of the truth, no matter how painful that truth might be. It’s all he had, really. His “truth”, his “justice.” 

It’s all he has left, after all. His sole interest, his sole desire to chase the truth no matter how far it ran or how well it evaded him.

His train of thought gets momentarily broken when a singer steps on stage. Her voice fills the room, and he feels himself smile. It’s a wonderful atmosphere. Too bad he had no one to share it with.

Goro continues to read.

_“"That’s what I don’t like, Wilson,” said Herlock Sholmes, after he had read Arsène Lupin’s message; ‘that is what exasperates me in this affair--to feel that the cunning, mocking eye of that fellow follows me everywhere. He sees everything; he knows everything; he reads my innermost thoughts; he even foresees my slightest movement. Ah! He is possessed of a marvellous intuition, far surpassing that of the most instinctive woman, yes, surpassing even that of Herlock Sholmes himself. Nothing escapes him. I resemble an actor whose every step and movement are directed by a stage manager; who says this and does that in obedience to a superior will. That is my position. Do you understand, Wilson?’”_

Somehow, this makes Goro want to laugh. On some level, he can understand Sholmes’ frustration. Being outsmarted, especially by those you’d sworn to apprehend, is understandably irritating. And yet, he finds himself practically green with envy. Oh, to have someone who could properly get his blood boiling. 

In the words of Hegel, _“advancement cannot occur without both thesis and antithesis.”_

What was a detective without his narrative foil? What was a detective without a case to be solved, truth to be sought, a killer to be caught? What joy could be had in such simple cases, point A to point B?

It’s unbecoming of a detective, perhaps, to wish for an equal to challenge his intellect. Perhaps it’d be moreso expected by a criminal or thief; those who yearn for the heart-pounding, irresistible allure of the chase. They’d want a detective to try and catch them so they could feel as if they’re intelligent, as if they’re invincible. Goro continues to read.

_“‘Mon Dieu! Of course, I was protecting them. Must a person steal, cheat and wrong all the time?’_

_‘Then you do good, also?’_

_‘When I have the time.’”_

Goro snorts, reaching for his drink. “Perhaps _he’d_ greatly enjoy this book.” 

Time seems to still. He stops, glancing down at his drink. It’s empty. It’s _empty._ When did that happen? Goro hadn’t noticed. He’d been so absorbed in the book in his hands that he hadn’t noticed himself draining the drink in front of him. It’s empty, now.

Empty, it feels so empty. 

Who is this _“he”_ that his brain kept subconsciously referencing? It feels… it feels like it’s on the tip of his tongue. Like he’s so close to understanding, like he’s so close to… remembering. Remembering what?--no, not “what”--”who”. 

He turns the page, the singer’s voice beginning to fade in and out as he let himself slip deeper and deeper into the words in front of his eyes. Jazz Jin, truly, had such a wonderful atmosphere. To Goro, it felt like a place of safety, of solitude. A place where he didn’t need to be anyone but himself. It’s somewhat silly, really, that he felt most comforted by a jazz club of all places, but in truth, it’s the only place he feels even somewhat welcome.

He didn’t feel like he belonged in his own home, even. But here… he could just lose himself, let himself sink further and further into the atmosphere. It was the only place felt even remotely comfortable in. It was the only place he had, really.

...But, is that really the truth?

Wasn’t there another place? Wasn’t there another place that had the very same sense of solitude and safety… even moreso than the comfort he’d gleam from Jazz Jin. It was such a new, unfamiliar feeling, and yet… he couldn’t remember such a place. It felt like his memories were fuzzy, and he needed to shove a pair of glasses on his brain so he’d be able to view them properly without the irritating blur.

He chews on his lip.

There’s another place like this. A place where he feels like it doesn’t matter who he is. He could just be himself. He didn’t need to be perfect, in fact, _he’d_ prefer if Goro was less like that, saying that he wanted to see the truth, to see Goro without his mask.

There’s another place where he feels safe--no, no. No, that’s not it. Not a place. Not a place, a person. But who? Who? It’s driving him insane. He wants to cut into his skull and yank out his brain and rip out the memories and view them like a film reel. Who is it? Who the fuck is it?! Why can’t he remember? It’s all so… so… _frustrating._ So utterly and undeniably aggravating. 

“I hate you,” He mumbles, under his breath.

And then it comes rushing back.

Thoughts, feelings, frustrations. But he can’t put a name to a face, can’t put a face to actions, can’t put actions to feelings. But the feelings overwhelm him regardless of his lack of knowledge; the boiling rage, the white-hot fury threatens to consume him whole, to eat him alive until there’s nothing left but bone for animals to sharpen their fangs on.

 _“I’m going to be perfectly honest with you: I hate you.”_

Who?

_“How can a piece of criminal trash like you be so much more loved than me?!”_

Who?

_“In all honesty, I wanted to see how far we could go…”_

Who?

“Why are you so much better than me?” Goro asks, clenching his fists so hard and so tight his knuckles turn white, underneath the soft leather of his gloves. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. He can’t take a breath in. He’s so angry, he’s so angry, he’s so fucking furious--

_“By the way, about that duel--if we had fought to the end, do you see yourself winning?”_

The world fades away. It fades into black, it fades into white, it fades into shades of bright scarlet red, of steel grey eyes, bone white mask, black curls that Goro wanted to thread his fingers through and pull and tug, it fades into one feeling buried under another buried under another buried under another, it fades into fury, it fades into disgust, it fades into jealousy and boiling envy, it all fades into a dark web of emotion that he can’t make sense of, let alone explain even to himself.

_“I most certainly wouldn’t lose.”_

Goro reaches into his pocket, slamming the payment for his drink onto the table and running. He practically kicks the door to Jazz Jin open and escapes, not paying attention to all of the confused eyes on him. He runs and runs and runs and runs, he runs until his chest burns like his eyes do, he runs until every part of his body screams for him to stop, he runs until he doesn’t.

Thankfully, he’d remembered to grab his book in his hasty exit. Goro feels his chest heave as he attempts to catch his breath. He stares at the book like it held all the answers to the world. And maybe it did. He narrows his eyes and looks as long and hard as he can, come on, he’s a detective, he should know this, he can do better than this. The answer is right there, right in front of his eyes. But what is it?

Goro’s eyes land on the cover of the book. _Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes._ The answer is right there, right under his nose. He just needs to figure it out. He knows it’s there, he knows it’s waiting, the truth that he’d been so single-mindedly devoted to all this time. The truth that he fought so hard to find. He scans every little detail of the cover, from the title, to the illustration on the front, to every single bit of text on front and back. Goro’s eyes catch on the author’s name.

Leblanc. Maurice Leblanc.

His stare could bore holes into the cover. And then he starts to laugh. He laughs and laughs and laughs. He laughs until it’s difficult to breathe, until he’s clutching his sides with the book held tightly in his gloved hands. Goro laughs until he can’t anymore, until there’s nothing left in him but a bleak, sinking feeling of emptiness, contrasted with his pure, unadulterated feeling of glee at arriving at the truth. He feels a smirk spread across his face.

“And here I thought you said you wouldn’t lose.” 

**Author's Note:**

> (procrastinates writing one angst fic to write another) uh yeah i'm a functional author, why do you ask
> 
> once i heard about the deadline ending for maruki's palace, this idea literally would not leave me alone, so here we are. when i was thinking about who the "protag" would be in this au, i was mulling over it for hours before jolting up in my bed and going "oh my god, it has to be goro, doesn't it?" and Now We're Here. we're here but at what cost (protag. protag is the cost. oops)
> 
> yeah, okay, so, if it wasn't clear: protag is not only "dead", but also no one remembers him. it's also been an Unspecified Amount Of Time since the deadline ending, so, haha, yeah, the former PT have been living their lives without protag in it and have been none the wiser, nor do they seem to think anything is amiss. 
> 
> So.......... yeah. i hope you enjoyed, and if you Did, feel free to leave a kudo, comment, or hmu on twitter @yumekuikenbun! i'm locked but it's okay to req if you'd like!


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